


We Were Kings (But Not Today)

by theisleisfullofnoises



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Ancient Egypt, Conversations, Friendship/Rivalry, Gen, History is awesome, I do not write romance, Martial Arts, This was supposed to be romantic, a quiet moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 02:24:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2293493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theisleisfullofnoises/pseuds/theisleisfullofnoises
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Before they were legends, they were men.</i><br/> </p><p>In which the gods are (theoretically) assholes, soul magic has (unexpected) consequences, violence really does solve all your problems (kinda), and Seto is a few cards short of a full deck of sanity no matter which incarnation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Were Kings (But Not Today)

Atem ducked just as the point of the spear jabbed towards his face, feeling it scrape across the bronze surface of his shield. He pressed forward, shield jamming the follow-up swing even as his opponent danced backwards.

The heat seemed to flow around him like the waters of the Nile, sluggish and resisting. Atem ignored it as he pushed his pursuit, tightening his grip on the sweat-soaked handle of his weapon. The spearman stopped suddenly, weapon flashing in the sun, and Atem blocked jerkily, cursing as he felt the sand skid beneath his sandals.

He moved with the blow, using momentum to regain his footing, his khopesh already swinging at the spearman’s ribs. The other man turned, however, swift as a snake, to deflect the blow with the spear’s haft. Without pausing, the spearman twisted again, angling a quick backswing towards Atem's unprotected neck. It met Atem’s shield with a dull ring of metal and he hooked it, pivoting to force the spear’s point into the sand.

Pinning it there with his shield, he struck at his foe’s exposed head, lips already twisting with anticipation-

Only to feel the sharp sting of impact against the back of his knees as his opponent swept his legs with the butt of the spear.

Atem hit the ground hard, sending up a golden cloud of dust, and gasped painfully. He twisted blindly, feeling sand grate against the bare skin of his back as he tried to roll to his feet, but at the warm press of sun-heated metal against his throat, he stilled.

Tilting his head back, he stared up at the figure framed against the blue sky.

“Dead,” Seth pronounced flatly. “Again. And you’re getting worse.”

In a great show of maturity, Atem did not groan or throw sand in the other man’s face.

His self-restraint went unappreciated. With his characteristic disdain, the young priest surveyed him cooly. “You’re distracted. You’re form is sloppy, and you can’t remember which end of the stick I’m threatening you with. What’s the matter, gotten lazy since I joined the priesthood? Forgotten how to train?”

Atem felt the flush of exertion turn darker and distinctly less pleasant. He gritted his teeth and rose from his knees. “I asked to fight _because_ I wanted to train.”

“Could have fooled me,” Seth sneered back. “Try to mean it, next time. If I wanted an easy fight, I’d ask one of the rabble.”

Atem was fit to snarl when a familiar voice interrupted them.

“Seth! That is enough,” Mahaad called sharply. “Remember to whom you speak.”

Atem had forgotten where they were, and realized a crowd had gathered to watch them fight. Feeling his humiliation more acutely, he glanced at the other man on the field. Fire flared in Seth’s eyes at the interruption- and then went dull. The priest looked away, and when he looked back, his face was a polite, if distant, mask. He bowed, every inch the contrite servant. “Forgive me, Highness, I should not have spoken as such.”

The frustration and embarrassment Atem felt at his defeat had sharpened with an edge of irritation, but now it was a useless blade. Mahaad’s intervention and the subsequent apology had deprived Atem of the focus of his ire. It was disorienting, like he had climbed a stair only to find no floor. Biting back everything he had been about to say, the prince instead replied, “All is forgiven. Thank you for the fight.”

Seth bowed again, an elegant and empty gesture, and stalked off the sparring field, waving off the flurry of servants at the arena’s edge. Atem watched him go.

“All these years in the temple and court, and that boy still has all the warmth of a cobra and the charm of a crocodile,” Mahaad muttered as he approached.

Atem thought of the fire in the other man's eyes, so carefully hidden. "Seth has never appreciated the subtleties of diplomacy." He passed his weapon off to the quartermaster, accepting water and cloth from another servant. “At least he can be trusted to speak his mind.” He drew the cloth across the sweat on his brow, grimacing as it came way gritty with sand and dust. “That is more than most of the court can even pretend to claim.”

Mahaad eyed the prince as they walked back to the palace, taking in the unhappy cant to his features. “Yet even the honest man is not always true. Seth exaggerates, Your Highness. Your form is excellent, and you can best most any man on the field.”

Atem sighed. “I thank you for your words, Mahaad, but forgiving the bluntness of his delivery, he is correct. I have been lax in my studies of late.” He saw Mahaad shift uncomfortably next to him and smiled in spite of himself. “Oh? Not going to contradict me now?”

“I had noticed a certain… scattered demeanor in your recent lessons.” Atem cleared his throat sheepishly, recalling a rather explosive recent example. “I assumed that, were it a concern, you would address it when you wished to.” He paused, then added. “I would also note that although I may not invite you to swing a khopesh at my head, when a problem is articulated into words I am far more receptive than Seth.”

Atem winced at the subtle accusation threaded through the statement. “I apologize, my old friend. It was not through any lack of trust that I have kept my confidence. I simply…” He trailed off, eyes tracing the familiar patterns in the limestone floor as they wound their way to his room. Mahaad walked beside him patiently, content now that the topic was broached to wait and follow his lead.

“My nights visit me with strange dreams, of late,” Atem said, finally.

Mahaad looked at him sharply. “Visions?”

The prince shook his head. “No- or, not in any useful way. Nothing like Isis and the Necklace, in any case.”

Mahaad looked somewhat mollified, but not much. “What do they concern, these dreams?”

“Nothing, that is what frustrates me. They-“ he grasped for the words. “They come in flurries. It is confusing. I dream of shadows, and voices I do not understand. Sometimes I see places or people, but when I wake, I can remember nothing clearly. All that remains is a fleeting feeling: rage, or triumph, or happiness, or sorrow.” He hissed in frustration. “I can make sense of none of it.”

Now it was Mahaad’s turn to fall silent in thought. Atem tried to bear it with his friend’s grace, listening to their footsteps echoing in the halls.

“Dreams are the messages of the gods,” Mahaad finally offered. “They see the twists of time far beyond our view. Perhaps you are not meant to understand yet.”

Atem’s mouth twisted, dissatisfied with the answer, but he sighed and nodded. “Perhaps.” They had reached the door to his quarters.

Mahaad bowed, eyes solemn. “I am sorry, my prince, that I cannot give you more peace in this. Some things must come in their own time.”

Atem found a smile. “If it were easy, the gods would get bored and then where would we be?”

Mahaad did not smile, but his mouth gave a betraying twitch. “An interesting theory. I’ll be sure to inform the priests of your new interpretation of the scripture.”

The young prince immediately groaned. “Oh gods, please, no. I barely escaped Sabni the last time he felt the need to “correct” me. I do not know how my father stands that man.”

Mahaad smirked in a utterly unreassuring way. “Perhaps you shall be lucky, and the next High Priest appointed will be more flexible in his doctrine.”

“Now there’s an idea,” Atem laughed. “How does ‘High Priest Seth’ sound to you?”

Looking like he had tasted something sour, Mahaad muttered, “Please, my prince, do not even jest.”

Chuckling, Atem turned to his rooms. “Thank you, my friend, for your ear and your advice. I shall see you at the ceremony tonight.”

The magician bowed. “Until then, my prince.”

~ ~ ~

Mahaad’s smile faded as his many years’ student, now friend, and someday liege disappeared from the hallway and he was left to muse on all he had learned.

He had known Atem for most of the boy’s life. He had been his first instructor of magic and borne witness to his developing powers. Now the prince, almost a man, was already one of the most powerful mages he had encountered. He was beloved by the court and people and loved the kingdom back with a ferocity born of a kind and courageous heart. Imbued with power, rank, and all the trappings of a hero of legend, the child was truly blessed by the gods.

Behind the pride and pleasure he felt for his student and friend, the thought chilled him.

Blessings, after all, were a power of their own, and like all power, came with a cost. _And the gods do nothing without reason._

Mahaad sighed, abruptly, shaking his head. He turned, heading towards his workshop. It was useless to pay worry to the troubles of tomorrow. He paid enough for those today.

And, he thought, tracing the ring of gold laying heavy against his chest, whatever tomorrow brought, whichever tomorrow it was, he would ensure the boy would never face it alone.

_This do I swear._

~ ~ ~

Atem sighed as he sank into his bath, breathing in the scent of honey and myrrh. He washed slowly, absently inventorying his souvenirs from the day. Although numerous, the bruises and scrapes were all mild. The fights had not, after all, been very intense.

At that thought, he forwent his pretense, dropping his washcloth with a disgusted sigh and settling down to brood.

He had dreamt last night of battle. Nothing clear, only a blur of color, a haunting laugh, and a sense of urgency, rage, fear and exhilaration. In the midst of it all, however, he had felt something familiar. A presence of defiance, anger, and strength, a flare of blue eyes.

 _I know you_ , he’d thought.

Atem snorted to himself. He’d hoped the fights today would spark some kind of insight, a chance at clarity. Instead he’d embarrassed himself and felt, if anything, even more ungrounded. Perhaps Mahaad was right, that understanding would come at the proper time. Still, the concept rankled. What use were dreams that were not to be heeded?

He sighed sharply, then stood. No new revelations would come to him in the bath. Wrapping himself in a cloth of soft linen, he left to prepare for the night.

~ ~ ~

“The old man’s in fine form tonight.”

Atem blinked, turning to the person sharing his hiding place. It was a stretch to actually call him hidden; Atem was dressed in his princely finest in honor of the occasion and thus stood out in his shining gold and purple. His location did, however, have an excellent vantage point for the rest of the hall and a very convenient potted palm to hide behind.

Upon completion of the official ceremony for the Feast of Anubis, Atem had been released from his father’s side on the dais. The feasting and celebration would continue for the rest of the evening, but sadly on this day it only meant excessive politicking amongst the courtiers. Sabni had been giving him the eye all evening, so Atem decided to err on the side of ‘don’t get caught’ on the off chance the old Rod-bearer had something to lecture him on.

He wondered if Seth was hiding for the same reason.

He eyed the subject of discussion from across the room, careful to keep the potted palm between them. “You take a rather reckless attitude towards someone favored as speaker for the gods.”

Seth snorted, leaning against a dark lacquered column. “Old Sabni? I’m convinced the only reason he still breathes is because the gods think it’s funny to watch the others squirm when he corners them.”

“Seth,” Atem hissed, shocked at the open irreverence. He noted with alarm that the old priest had begun to move toward their- his- hiding place.

“Don’t worry, the man’s already heard it from me. Unless you are actually disagreeing with me, in which case, feel free to get his attention. Just find a comfortable seat first; you’ll need it for the next few hours.”

Atem tried valiantly to scowl at the young priest as some of the nearby revelers started casting them dark looks, but he suspected he was failing. He noticed with relief that Sabni had simply moved to speak to a different group of courtiers. The nobles immediately acquired half-glazed, half-desperate expressions and he had bite down on his tongue to keep from laughing. “You are utterly maddening,” he muttered.

“If being nice and likable was a requirement for the priesthood, we might find ourselves a little short on clergy.” Seth suddenly pushed off from the column, winding his way towards the back of the room.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“Getting out of here.” After a moments hesitation, Atem followed.

For such a tall man, Seth was remarkably good at sneaking. They managed to make it out of the hall without being accosted due to creative use of obstacles -including, at one point, the troop of performing dancers. Mana caught his eye at one point, but other than raise an eyebrow at his choice of company, let him go unmolested.

Atem felt certain they would still be caught and returned to the hall afterwards, particularly after rounding a corner only to find Mahaad and half of the other High Priests having an apparently very serious conversation, but Seth caught by the collar and yanked him back immediately. The motion must have been obvious, but the only one to look up was Isis. She merely gave a subtle nod and turned away, shifting to obscure Akunadin’s and Shimon’s lines of sight.

They backtracked, taking a servants’ corridor towards a different wing, Seth muttering about _damn freaky women_ under his breath.

“Will your superiors not punish you when they notice you are gone?” Atem asked once they’d finally reached a fair distance. They’d fled to the treasurers’ hall, which was almost certain to be empty on a holiday like this.

Seth only shrugged, leaning on a nearby desk. He seemed not to care about the crunch of papyrus scrolls beneath him. “So long as I’m not causing trouble, most of the priests consider ‘out of sight’ pleasantly out of mind.”

“If they consider you so troublesome, why did they induct you into the priesthood?” Atem had wondered for a while. Seth was an unusual case, after all. Commoners were rarely elevated above the rank of acolyte.

“Power, obviously.” He smirked. “It’s the secret of bending any rule.”

For such a proud, almost arrogant statement, Atem thought, it tasted bitter in the air.

There was a moment of awkwardness, as the unexpected camaraderie from before fell away, and nothing came forth to takes its place. Even the quiet, ever-present animosity between them was falling short, strained by the muddled conclusion of the day’s bouts.

The thought of the fight brought a lightning strike of inspiration, and without stopping to even consider, Atem said, “I want to fight you again.”

Seth had been reading- and, apparently, correcting- the calculations scattered on the desk. Now he stopped, turning to stare at him, eyes sharp and face unreadable. He didn’t say anything, however, not even a smug remark, and the silence stretched into uncomfortable lengths.

He was listening, Atem thought, and chose his words with care. “I want to try again. A rematch.” Bowing his head, he admitted, “You were right, before. I was distracted and careless for it. That doesn’t excuse my loss,” and here he felt a flash of remembered humiliation, sand and sweat clinging to his skin, but he buried it ruthlessly and pressed on, “but it was unworthy, of me and of you. You deserve better.” He paused, then added fiercely. “I owe you better.”

Seth’s face did not change as Atem spoke. When the prince finished, he glanced over him, a quick flash of eyes, then abruptly stood.

“This way,” he said, jerking his head and stalking off.

Atem followed, relaxing despite his companion’s taciturnity. It occurred to him that, truthfully, there was no way Seth would have been able to deny him. Even if he had not wanted to, he would have bowed and thanked the prince and asked politely when and where.

That he did none of these things was telling.

Power may bend others to him just as it did Seth, but Atem knew that Seth, at least, would not break.

~ ~ ~

Seth led him to an older wing of the palace. Some of the early halls Atem recognized as part of the mage and scholars’ halls, but now the stone was rough and dusty. A few turns and flight of stairs ago, the hallway sconces has no longer been lit, and Seth led the way with a torch in hand.

They passed an open archway. Peering into the inky blackness, he saw the torchlight flicker over a sunken arena. Spying the the elevated podiums on either end, Atem realized where they were.

They passed two more old dueling halls before Seto stopped and entered. It was cool in the old dueling room, but not as cold as the night outside. Setting the torch in the mount by the door, Seth murmured a word and made a sharp gesture. Flames flared up at several other torches set up around the room. A chest sat at the back of the hall, large and clearly out of place. Seth went straight to it. As the priest began to pull out various weapons, something that definitely did not belong in a ancient mage’s duel hall, Atem came to a startling conclusion.

This room belonged to Seth.

He took in the dusty corners, the scuffed floor, the used and clearly unused torch mounts, and wondered how many hours Seth had spent here. Had escaped here.

How sacred was this sanctuary?

It may not have been wise, but Atem needed to give something back.

“I dreamt of you last night,” he spoke into the dusty quiet. Seth paused at the chest but did not turn around. Atem took that as a sign to continue anyway. “I have dreamt of many things for many nights. Weeks. All strange places and strange people. I feel lost.” He looked away, down at his hands, pressing at a bruise to feel the ache. “It is like I become someone else. Always with a sense of urgency, such  _purpose_. But ever makes sense." He clenched his jaw, biting down on the rest of his thoughts, and said simply. "You were the first thing I _knew_.”

Another hand entered his vision, grasping his and pulling it away. Startled, Atem looked up into blue eyes.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Atem frowned, disappointed by the dismissal. Seeing this, Seth shook his head, continuing, “Listen to the dreams or ignore them. It doesn’t matter. Dreams don’t change anything. They don’t shape your future.” He brought up his other hand, pressing a pair of daggers into Atem’s. “Only you decide that.” He walked back to the chest.

Atem looked down at them, each about the length of his forearm, worn but well-maintained. He stared at the play of torchlight along one blade’s edge.

For a moment, in the reflection, he saw a different room. Lit pale and stark, he and Seth stood squared off, a field of monsters spread between them, faces marked with challenge and desperation.

The torchlight sputtered and the image is gone.

“What if I told you that one day our battles would not be feigned. That one day we would face each other in earnest?” He murmured the words, but they carried well in the silence.

Seth looked up from the dagger he was polishing. He gave him a considering look, then snorted. “Hah, I could have told you that.”

Atem blinked, baffled by the blithe reply. “What? How?”

“I know who I am,” Seth said. His gaze slid up again, serious and searing. “I know what I would fight for.”

Meeting that stare was like staring into the sun. Atem felt suddenly young, in comparison. The words, though…

“What I would fight for,” he repeated, letting his eyes slide closed. He drew a long, slow breath. His hand drifted up, brushing across his crown. Who would he fight for. His father. His kingdom. His people. _His people- Mahaad and Mana and Shimon and Isis and Shada and Karim and even Sabni the old bore and…_

_And…_

_I know you._

He smiled, then, and released a warm laugh. Grasping his crown, he drew it from his head and dropped it to the side. With it followed his bracelets and necklaces, his rings and over robes, until only his tunic remained, linen soft and pale in the torchlight. Seth watched on, eyes sharp.

“Come,” Atem smirked, striding to the center of the room. He twirled the daggers in his hands. “It is time to duel.”

~ ~ ~

Atem leapt back, using the moment’s respite to wipe the sweat from his eyes. He grinned, feeling it ache in his chin where Seth had snuck a lucky pommel strike in and not caring.

Seth, too, was taking the moment, watching carefully from a few meters’s distance. He was bleeding from a split lip, courtesy of Atem’s well-placed elbow. There was a feral light in his eyes, and it only brightened when he saw Atem’s grin. He smirked in return. “Oh, are we stopping? Does His Highness need a break?”

“Hardly,” Atem called back. “Though if that was a request, I’m sure I could find some pity for a weary subject.”

Seth’s reply was half snarl, and the fight continued.

In a flurry of exchanges, Atem managed to hook Seth’s left blade with his own, sending it spinning off into the dust. His triumph was short-lived, Seth countering with a stunning blow to his right wrist, jarring Atem’s own dagger from numb fingers to be kick away by the taller man. Dodging to his left, he ducked under the next strike, knife switching hands to aim for Seth’s unprotected side.

A hand on his wrist intercepted the blow, twisting into a hold. Atem moved with it instead, letting the momentum carry him into a kick at his opponent’s armed hand. Seth cursed but kept his grip on the dagger; his grip on Atem, however, slid loose against sweat-slicked skin. Free once more, Atem unleashed a lightning fast series of strikes. Seth met them, forced to the defensive, until Atem overextended on a jab to the face. A hand wrapped around his arm and pulled; the world spun as Atem rolled through the throw.

He kept his guard as he reclaimed his footing, but he was still unprepared from the kick that came smashing into his hand with an explosion of pain. His last knife went skittering out of sight.

He didn’t waste any breath on swearing. The next strike came fast, and he ducked under it, aiming a kick at Seth’s knees. It didn’t take him down, but it staggered him enough to buy time as Atem darted left, stooped low.

The tackle caught Atem by surprise, knocking the breath from his lungs. They hit the ground together and rolled, a confusion of limbs and cursing.

When they finally stopped, the stone of the floor pressed cool and rough against Atem’s back. Seth’s knife was cool and smooth against his throat.

“Dead.” Seth gave a crocodile smile. “Too bad.”

In response, Atem only smirked and glanced down. Seth followed his gaze to see a dagger, Seth’s other dagger, resting just above his navel.

He gave it an almost offended glare. “Hn. Stomach wound, slow death.”

Atem choked a laugh. “Only you, Seth, would complain about how long it would take for you to die in theory from a practice bout.” He dropped his blade, shifting to sit up.

His motion stalled, however. Seth had yet to remove his knife. “You say that like you’ve never thought about it.”

Atem scowled at the other man. “About what?” Seth was staring again, and Atem was beginning to feel uncomfortable, uncertain at the change in tone. From the edge of his vision he could see the dagger pulse slightly against the pressure of his quickening heart. He wondered if that was what Seth was watching. “Seth.”

Like his name had broken some spell, Seth blinked and abruptly stood. “About the way you will die,” he continued, blithely wandering away to pick up their fallen daggers. “Most people have some preference.”

Atem rolled to his feet, observing the other man with a mixture of wariness and concern as he tried to gauge the shifting mood. “I suppose I always hoped to die an old man, with a strong heir to leave the kingdom to,” he offered. “That is, after all, my duty as Pharaoh to my kingdom and populace.”

“Hn.” Seth lifted one of the daggers to the light, nominally looking for nicks.

“Well?” Atem asked, irritated.

“Well what?”

“Well, what did you mean? ‘Hn’ is not an answer.”

“Oh? I was just thinking how sweet that is, dying old and surrounded by loved ones. Quite a luxury, really.”

Atem clenched his jaw hard enough something spasmed. “Really. And what about you?”

“Me?” As if he were surprised by the question. Seth grinned, showing teeth. “I want to go down fighting.”

Atem stared for a moment. “You know, most people would be grateful for a long life.”

“For what? So you can outlive your purpose and spend your last days waiting to die? I don’t need it,” he sneered.

Atem shook his head. “Is that what you truly believe?”

“No, I only say it for the hell of it,” he said dryly. “And I’m hardly ‘most people’,” was added almost in afterthought.

Atem blinked at him, then chuckled wryly, running a hand over his face. “No. You most definitely are not,” he muttered, resigned. He turned away, picking up his own castoff dagger and taking it to the chest.

They cleaned in silence, Seth carefully reordering the chest before locking it. Pocketing the key, he turned around to find Atem watching him.

The prince had replaced his robes and adornments, reclaiming a royal visage only slightly marred by the streaks of dust on his hair and face.

Seth regarded him with a raised brow.

“I wanted to thank you,” Atem said quietly. “You did not have to give me the chance to redeem myself, and for that I am grateful.” He offered a tentative smile. “Perhaps we can do this again sometime.”

Seth gave him that quick, analyzing glance again, and then crossed his arms. “Hn. Well, I suppose I’ve no choice but to clear my schedule the next time the prince wants a thrashing.”

Atem’s smile slid right into a scowl. “I beg your pardon? I would hardly call that a ‘thrashing.’”

“Oh, yeah? Tell that to your face,” he smirked, tapping his chin.

“Tell it to your own face,” Atem snapped back. “Or better yet, let my fist do the talking. Again.”

“I can see we have a true intellectual for a future sovereign. What will you do for negotiations? Grunt once for truce and twice for war?”

“That is marvelously ironic coming from you of all people - ”

Still arguing, the two men stepped out into the hallway. The taller one made a brief gesture before turning and walking away.

One by one, the torches in the room went dark.

~ ~ ~

“Isis?”

The image of a darkening room dissolved and the High Priestess opened her eyes, drawing her hands away from the Necklace. Mahaad watched her from the doorway, hands full of the scrolls she’d asked to borrow. He glanced at the Necklace and back to her, eyes sharper. “Is everything alright?”

She smiled warmly, knowing the man’s inclination to worry. “I think, perhaps, it will be.” And, for the first time in a long while, she felt to words to be true. The turns of fate stretched far beyond even her eyes, but in this glimpse, she felt sure… _Yes. It is a start_.

~ ~ ~

 

Millennia later, a spirit will gaze into the soul of a broken man and, just for a moment, think, “ _Do I know you_?”

This night, a young prince dreams of a dragon’s roar and the taste of ozone on his tongue and whispers, “ _Yes_.”

~ ~ ~

>   
>  If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;  
>  If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;  
>  If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster  
>  And treat those two impostors just the same;
> 
> ~ Rudyard Kipling, If: A Father's Advice to His Son

**Author's Note:**

> This whole story born simply by a desire to play around with a few characters. Atem and Seth, almost but not quite the men they will be. A quiet moment before the storm. 
> 
>  
> 
> About The Dreams, (if you even care):  
> I actually had a reason for Atem’s dreams. It had far less to do with fate or divinity, and more to do with the idea that using one’s own soul to seal an evil demigod into a pocket in the fabric of space-time could have some odd consequences. Especially since they imply that, by doing so, Atem did not so much defeat Zorc as press a very powerful pause button. Think of it as a kind of ripple effect.  
> AKA I read too much scifi and Doctor Who.
> 
> On the Item Holders:  
> I'm not sure if this is obvious or not, but since this is set a year, roughly, before Pharaoh Aknamkanon's death, I am assuming that some of the original holders have already passed theirs on.
> 
> The Feast of Anubis (AKA Anpu) is a real holiday. One of a LOT. Them Egyptians liked to party.
> 
> The khopesh is one of the iconic weapons for Ancient Egypt, mostly due to its unusual appearance. It looks, essentially, like a sword, only midway down the blade it gains a pronounced 'c' shape. It's pretty cool, very efficient for infantry, and handles somewhere between and axe and a sword. 
> 
> I’m new to this, so feedback would be much appreciated!


End file.
